By all accounts, Tom Benchley was a bit of an odd duck. Digging deeper, there was the suggestion of a scandal. Pictures of him falling into a pool drunk at a Hollywood party. Punching a reporter. He’d sacked his publicist, refused calls from his agent, stopped talking to the press and disappeared, before resurfacing in an old mansion he’d bought on the fringes of Upper Finlay. He had barricaded himself away, seeing no one, while everyone waited with bated breath for the penultimate book in the series – which he may or may not have been writing.
The last book in the series to be published, book number four, had ended on a cliff-hanger, leaving the fate of several popular characters hanging in the balance. The TV show, now a cultural phenomenon, had managed to eke six seasons out of the first four books. The producers were now anxiously awaiting the next instalment. It seemed that Tom Benchley had cracked under the pressure.
The murkier depths of the internet suggested he had gone crazy, totally lost the plot. He was said to perform weird rituals on his property. He was living in a fortified bunker. He had two hundred cats. He once ate a live canary.
Tom Benchley’s picture was all over the web. He was much younger than I expected, around thirty-five. Meaning he had written the first book in the series when he was little more than a teenager. He was also quite attractive, if you were into haughty features and cheekbones that could cut glass. Very Benedict Cumberbatch, the Sherlock years.
I realised I was vaguely aware of the TV show, but it wasn’t really my thing and I’d never watched it. It seemed the hysteria had passed me by. But I was starting to realise that the bookshop’s website had shown up on the radar of his rabid fanbase. A random twist of fate brought on by the Google gods. Already, my mind was spinning. Could I somehow use this to help Alex?
Thirty-Two
I hurried downstairs, the beginnings of an audacious idea taking root. I sat in the kitchen, picking at my breakfast. I hesitated for a moment. And then pulled out my phone. Should I do this? Would Alex be mad? My finger paused then I went ahead and texted the gang. I needed more information.
That evening I met with Rosie, Cece, Jim and Noah at the Nelson. We retired to the lounge, packed in tight around one of the varnished pub tables.
‘So,’ I said, sipping my G&T. I cleared my throat nervously. ‘I was hoping to pick your brains.’
‘Go on,’ Rosie said.
‘Does anyone know anything about a local author named Tom Benchley?’
Everyone looked at Noah.
‘Why is everyone looking at me?’
‘Because you’re our resident Gyrthster,’ said Jim.
This prompted much laughter and spluttering into drinks.
‘Come on, that was years ago! Anyway, so what? I happen to like the novels.’
‘Like,’ Jim said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think that might be a bit of an understatement?’
‘All right, I love them,’ he confessed grumpily. ‘There. Are you all happy now?’
‘He read them before they got popular,’ Rosie said in a droll voice, rolling her eyes. ‘And don’t we know it.’
Jim laughed. ‘I remember you running around the local woods dressed as Yorath the Witch Slayer.’
‘I was nine, for God’s sake.’
‘I seem to recall you being a bit older than that, mate,’ Jim said, smirking.
Noah took a sip of his pint, blushing furiously. ‘Have you really not heard of Tom Benchley?’
I shook my head.
‘Come on,’ Noah said. ‘Death to Fargore.’ He contorted his hands into some kind of weird intricate salute. ‘No?’
‘The people wandering down the street in fancy dress, then,’ Rosie said. ‘You never wondered what all that was about?’
‘Cosplay,’ Noah said, ‘not fancy dress.’
‘You tell yourself that,’ Jim said, teasing him good-naturedly.
In truth, there were so many wonderful oddballs in Upper Finlay that I hadn’t been able to separate the native ones from the non-native ones.
Now that I thought about it, there had been this one time when a bloke in full battle armour had come clopping down the high street on an irritated looking horse. But to be honest I thought that was just, you know, standard Upper Finlay.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Back to Tom Benchley. Just how reclusive is he?’
‘On a scale of one to ten, that would be an eleven,’ said Noah.
‘But he must be fond of Upper Finlay at least – if he came back to live here.’
‘As I understand it,’ Jim said, ‘the mansion he owns is where his mother used to work as a cleaner. Sounds more like a way of settling old scores to me.’
Hmm, that sounded less than encouraging. I pressed on.
‘So how would someone go about seeking an audience with him?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Noah said. ‘Tom Benchley doesn’t do audiences. Nor does he do book signings, public appearances, or anything else. If you tried to get in touch, you’d probably end up with a cease and desist order. One thing he does like to spend his money on is shit-hot lawyers and security.’
‘There must be some way of getting in touch,’ I said.
‘Believe me, Daisy, you’d only be joining the back of a very long queue.’
‘Why the sudden interest?’ Cece asked, turning to me. ‘Are you a secret Gyrthster as well? I hear he’s quite dishy.’
‘I heard he was as mad as a box of frogs,’ Rosie said.
Cece pouted. ‘Spoil sport.’
‘Yeah, Daisy, what’s brought on this sudden interest?’ Jim asked.
I gave a casual shrug. ‘Just wondered.’
Jim squinted at me. ‘I’m not having that. I can see the gears whirring.’
I paused for a few moments, wondering how much I could tell them. I hated going behind Alex’s back, but surely they had to have some idea of the hole he was in.
‘It’s the bookshop,’ I said. ‘It’s in a bit of trouble.’
They all shared a knowing look.
‘So you know about that too?’ said Rosie.
I nodded cautiously.
‘And do you have any idea just how bad it is?’ Jim asked. ‘Because we sure as hell don’t. We’ve tried to get it out of him, but Alex clams up whenever we mention it. You know what he’s like. Happy to help everyone else. But he never wants to accept any help himself.’
‘It’s bad,’ I said feeling like a traitor. ‘Very bad.’
A silence fell over the table.
‘And how does Tom Benchley figure in all of this?’ asked Noah.
‘I thought if I told him the local bookshop desperately needed his help, he might consider doing an author event to raise some money…’
Looking around the table, I could see that no-one was buying this idea.
‘It sounds stupid now that I say it out loud. But I just keep racking my brains trying to think of some way to help. Even just to buy Alex some time.’ I put my head in my hands, close to tears.
‘Hey, come here.’ Noah said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t get upset. It was a lovely idea. You’re a good friend.’
Rosie slammed her glass down, startling everyone. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ve only gone and had a bloody thought.’
‘First time for everything,’ Jim said. Cece pinched him.
‘Shut up, Jimbo. Let Rosie talk.’
‘There is one thing, now that I come to think of it…’
Cece abruptly switched sides. ‘For god’s sake, Rosie – spit it out!’
‘It’s Liam,’ Rosie said.
‘Ugh,’ Jim pulled a face.
‘What about him?’ I asked.
‘He was going on the other night about this new job he’s picked up. Said he was working for a local celebrity. That I wouldn’t believe who it was even if he t
old me. He said that money was no object for this bloke and that he was raking it in.’
‘Isn’t he a landscape gardener or something?’ Jim asked.
Rosie nodded. ‘Liam was loving it, though. His little secret. To be honest, he was aggravating me so much I purposely didn’t push. But now that I think about it, who else could it be? Tom Benchley is literally the only celebrity I can think of that lives nearby.’
‘Oh come on, I bet there’s all sorts of famouses living around here,’ Jim said.
We went silent for a while.
‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I tried.’
‘Is Liam in here tonight?’ I asked, clutching at straws.
‘I think I saw him in the main bar earlier, playing the fruit machine,’ Noah said.
Rosie shook her head disgustedly. ‘That’s where half his wages go.’
‘Sod it,’ I said. ‘Let’s get him in here and give him a good grilling.’
‘I think that’s Rosie’s job,’ Cece said, smirking.
‘Ugh,’ Jim said.
Rosie pulled a face. ‘Do I have to? He already thinks he’s got me right where he wants me.’
I didn’t feel comfortable forcing the issue, but Cece – God love her – gave Rosie a shove. ‘This is for Alex, remember?’
‘Fine!’ She stomped off to go and find him.
A few minutes later, Liam slouched into the snug, followed by Rosie. We all stared expectantly up at him.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’ Liam said.
There was some throat clearing and shuffling around.
‘Bloody hell. It’s like being in court. What am I supposed to have done this time?’
This was my crazy idea, so I guessed it was up to me to follow it through.
‘Tom Benchley,’ I said. ‘We were wondering what you could tell us about him.’
‘Who?’ Liam said unconvincingly. A criminal mastermind he was not.
Rosie laughed. ‘Who! Will you get a load of him!’
Liam looked at her, realising where the tip-off had come from. ‘Oh, right, I get it now – you’ve been shooting off your mouth.’
‘Well if you will go bragging about your newfound riches, what do you expect me to do?’
‘Enough of the bickering,’ said Jim. ‘Just tell us, is it Tom Benchley you’re working for or not?’
Liam pouted sulkily and stared back at the main room. ‘All right, yes. Are you satisfied? Can I get back to the fruity – it’s about to pay out.’
‘And you go there once a month,’ I pressed, ignoring his question.
Liam nodded. ‘That’s right. Every last Thursday of the month.’
I counted off the dates. ‘Which means you’ll be going there in a few days.’
‘Well done, gorgeous. There’s no flies on you.’
‘Must be a hell of a big job for one gardener,’ I observed. ‘I expect the grounds of that old mansion must be ginormous.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Liam said. ‘But I don’t mind putting a shift in for that kind of dough.’
‘Still,’ I said, ‘a little extra help wouldn’t go amiss, would it? What you need is a proper crew.’ I grinned winningly. ‘Us, I mean,’ I said, when he didn’t appear to be getting it.
Liam stared at me as though I’d lost the plot.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I’m putting this gig at risk.’
I leaned forward on my stool. ‘This isn’t for us,’ I said.
‘It’s for Alex. Remember the other day when you asked me to thank him for you. Actually, thank him “a million” is what you said. You told me you owed him “big time”. I assume the van Alex lent you helped you get the Tom Benchley gig in the first place?’
Reluctantly, Liam nodded. ‘So?’
‘So – you wouldn’t even have this job without Alex, right? Well, now he needs you to return the favour.’
Liam shuffled restlessly, wrestling with his conscience.
‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ Rosie said.
‘Ha!’ Liam cried. ‘That’s a good one! You’re the one who can’t get enough of me!’
Rosie drew herself up on her chair.
‘Oh yeah, who’s the one sending booty calls every other night?’
‘Come on, Liam. Help us out here,’ I interrupted, before they could get on a roll.
He looked down at the tacky floor, and then up at the ceiling. Finally, he stared at me, shaking his head. ‘I must have a screw loose.’
I jumped up. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘All right, calm down, I’ll do it. Now then, Rosie, what was it you said about making it worth my while?’
‘Buy a girl a drink first,’ Rosie said.
‘Ugh,’ Jim said, ‘you two are the worst.’
That evening snuggled up in bed in one of Alex’s old T-shirts, I was feeling cautiously optimistic. The first hurdle, getting to Tom Benchley in the first place, had been overcome. But I still wasn’t exactly sure how I could engineer that meeting into an outcome that would produce the kind of money Alex needed.
I started to break the problem down. If, in the extremely unlikely event we did somehow manage to talk to the reclusive author, and even more unlikely, we persuaded him to do a reading, I was sure there would be plenty of public interest. The fans were practically frothing at the mouth for the next instalment, but even if people were willing to cough up a couple of quid, we had a physical limitation as to how many people we could seat. Even if we packed them in like sardines, that would barely cover the cost of the buffet we’d inevitably have to provide.
My brain kept ticking over the problem. We could film the event and sell it. But to who? No, what was needed was a digital annexe to the bookshop which could easily accommodate several thousand more punters. At one time, this would have been impossible, but the technology was not only available now, it was more or less free.
I wondered, could we live stream it, charge for tickets? If we kept admission cheap and by some viral miracle, got the word out, maybe just maybe, we’d tempt a few thousand subscribers. It wouldn’t get Alex all the way out of the hole he was in, but it might just be enough to keep the wolves from the door.
Picking up a pen from the bedside table, I started doing the maths on an old envelope and saw that this might actually work, at least in theory. As the numbers added up, I felt a buzz of excitement. Maybe the bookshop could be saved after all. It was a long shot, admittedly, one final straw to grasp. But I had to try – for Alex.
Too het up to sleep, I began plotting my next move.
Thirty-Three
I was a little nervous about revealing my masterplan to Alex. Would he be cross that I’d told the gang just how bad things really were? Maybe he would see it as a betrayal of trust. I swallowed. The thought of Alex being angry filled me with dread.
With my heart in my mouth, I put the laptop under one arm and went into the café where Alex was supposed to be on duty, hoping to kill two birds with one stone. I’d soften him up with the website unveiling before I let him know what he was in for this Thursday. But the closed sign was hanging from the café door and the lights were off in the main room.
I was about to turn around and try the kitchen, when I caught a sudden movement off to my left. A little startled, I looked over and saw Alex flicking the ash from his roll-up cigarette into an empty saucer. He was sat at one of the tables in the solitary gloom, a printed letter open next to the makeshift ashtray. He looked up and gave me a tired nod.
‘Hey, Daisy.’
‘Alex, what are you doing?’ I asked with a sinking feeling.
He sat back in his chair. ‘I needed a moment to myself and the place was empty anyway. It’s not like I had to kick anybody out.’
Hearing the strain in his voice, and seeing the state he was in, I decided that n
ow was not a good time to bring up either subject (any subject, really). Stopping where I was, I started to backpedal. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘This can wait. We can always talk later.’
Shaking his head, Alex gestured to the opposite chair, folding the letter in two. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Switch the lights on. Come and have a seat.’
After a moment’s hesitation, I switched on one of the wall lights and went and sat across from him, placing the closed laptop on the table.
Alex stared at it, guessing my reason for being here. ‘Have you got something to show me?’
I could tell he was trying to summon some enthusiasm and it hurt my heart that he would be thinking about my feelings even now. Alex Dean, I thought, I’m going to help you whether you want it or not. I’m going to help the hell out of you.
After a brief pause, I nodded, lifted the screen up, and turned the laptop around for him to view. A smile spread across Alex’s face immediately.
‘Bloody hell, Daisy,’ he said. ‘This is brilliant.’
Pulling the laptop closer, he ran his finger over the touchpad and explored the website in more detail. When he reached the History of The Bookshop Café page, his eyes widened. A look of total absorption entered his face. I squirmed in my chair, hoping he liked it.
‘I found those photos of your father in the stock room. I hope you don’t mind me using them.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen them before. These must be from the early days after he’d just opened up.’ Alex laughed. ‘He looks so young.’
Alex was clearly moved, and for a time, he said nothing. I had the feeling he was fighting back tears. ‘I love it, Daisy,’ he said finally. ‘All of it. The care you’ve put into this is unbelievable. I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t have to say anything.’
Alex stared at me in that searching way of his, as if he could see my very core.
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